Native Ways
by Hashtagged977
Summary: Nastas was killed as a result of helping John Marston, and acting as an informant to Blackwater's new F.B.I. bureau. But what became of his children? His son survives the consequences of father's actions, but gathers a raging desire to find the men who are responsible for his suffering. Rating is M, but I might become gory in my descriptions later, so be warned.
1. Chapter 1: 'Natural' Strength

**Hi all! This is my first fanfic., so I'm open to all kinds of reviews, compliments or constructive criticisms please. Thank you, and hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 1: Natural Strength

Tiredness, and pain had been two problems, of which the Native child had become accustomed to in his short life so far. They were in no way benefits to himself, or his potential ability, and perhaps, they proved themselves as problems best, at this specific moment in time. But the boy knew he would have to force himself to overcome these two unhappy symptoms of being the son of a so-called 'traitor', if he would not, there would be horrible consequences to otherwise await him. He stumbled over the uneven landscape of the 'great plains', of which at this moment in time, were by no means 'great' from his own perspective. But he didn't care, he just ran bravely, almost like an injured warrior, hurt physically, but not mentally.

However, the boy knew his impressive struggle against pain, and tiredness, would not last for an extremely long duration of time, and it was his legs that gave way first, as he fell onto the tough terrain, clutching at his right foot. Blood still ebbed from it, the wound of the bullet, and the boy could only face it with a horrified expression, as his mental sanity began to also gradually disintegrate, from the sight his eyes brought to him.

'_What did I do?' ,_he thought to himself, _'What did I do to deserve this?'_

The boy changed his attention from his bloody foot to his bruised hand. What had previously been his natural weapon, his natural helper, his natural friend, had now lost its ability to connect with the boy's nerves, as a result of the brutality of the punishments inflicted upon it. He would have preferred to use his hand to estimate the relative damage of which had been inflicted upon his countenance too, but that would now of course, not be possible. It would not have been necessary either, as he could already feel the luke-warm temperature of blood, trickle down his head, before continuing its journey down the boy's neck.

Despite how much the boy detested the idea, he knew that he would need to call for help, and it would most likely have to be from the white man, the enemy. The destroyer of his values, of his beliefs, of his land, and of his people. He would be betraying his own people if he were to call for these people, and would become a 'traitor', like his own father. It didn't matter though, not any more. This was no question of his commitment to his people, this was a question of life or death.

A stagecoach passed, full of the people he had been taught to not communicate with. English, language of the destroyer, was something of which the boy's other fellow natives had not even known existed, but he was different. His father had been a native of which often communicated with English, and had often believed in peaceful ways of dealing with 'outsiders', especially negotiation and communiation. _'Actions are more powerful than words, my son,' _the boy remembered his father telling him when he was of a younger age, _'but words are less painful because of this.' _The boy certainly needed less pain now, and sighed, before he managed to cup his hands around his mouth, and cry for help.

He felt as if he had felt the good side of luck for the first time in his life, when a stagecoach came to an abrupt stop in the road nearby, and one of the passengers, exited the coach, a shocked expression on his face.

'Sir, why have we stopped?' the stagecoach driver asked, the horse's hooves dragging themselves in a circular motion on the road below.

'Pickett, are you seeing what I'm seeing?' the passenger asked, as he pointed at the boy.

'A native boy...sir?'

'An injured native boy, Pickett.'

'Yes?'

'Yes...get him on this coach now.'

'Why sir?'

'WHY?', the passenger reiterated to the driver, 'Why? Because he is injured, Pickett, and he is just a boy. I don't care if he's a native, or even if he is some sort of a long-lost son of President Lincoln, GET HIM ON THIS COACH NOW!'

The driver tried to object, but the passenger managed to silence him, before he was able to do so. With reluctance, 'Pickett' walked over to the boy and carried him to the coach. The young native may have been confused, if perhaps he hadn't been injured so much, and so, there was at least, one positive effect that had come out of the horrible pain, of which he was suffering.

'What's your name, boy?' the passenger asked, as the coach began to move towards a town called 'Blackwater'.

'Abornazine', the boy murmured, 'son...of Nastas.' They were the last words the boys could muster, before his world went dark, and he came to realise that he may have chosen the wrong decision after all. He had called for help to survive, but he would face the grim reaper anyway. He had finished his life on a relatively unusual note. He had communicated with those, of which his people had been taught to avoid. Whether that decision was one, he would come to regret in the next life, or still in this life, only time could tell.


	2. Chapter 2: Blackwater Greetings

**Ok, so this is chapter two of my first fanfic. I don't know why, but it seems easier (in my opinion anyway), writing the start of the story when compare to continuing it, because the first chapter is usually the chapter, that informs the reader what standards to expect from the author. Once again I am welcome to any kind of reviews, whether they be constructive criticisms, or compliments. Thank you!**

Chapter 2: Blackwater greetings

Abornazine awoke in a rather unfamiliar place, to the uttermost surprise of both himself and those who surrounded him. The sight of 'outsiders' staring at him with troubled expressions, was not one of which the native boy could remember having experienced before. It took perhaps a few brief moments before the boy came to realise, that the darkness, and evil of the grim reaper had judged him well enough, to not find it a necessity to pay a visit. Perhaps this was great and he had been spared by a more powerful being than those of which had caused his injuries, or perhaps this was just a method of delaying his life to make it forever more painful, Abornazine was undecided in relation to the reason for which he could still enact the process of breathing, but those who watched him curiously, acted as if they knew exactly why he was awake, and alive.

"It's a miracle," one cried out, his expression changing from that of a shocked grizzly, to that of a positively surprised hunter.

"He's resurrected from the dead, he must be a new Jesus Christ," another shouted. Soon, there were reasons, and suggestions being exclaimed from the corners to the centre of the large room of which Abornazine was (or at least was supposed to be) resting in.

The loud excitement, and curiosity that had consumed everyone within the room, was reduced to a quiet whisper following the entry of a certain rich upper-class gentleman through the doorway. His heavy shoes created a memorable clashing sound with the weak wooden floor, of which was impossible for nobody in the room to not take notice of. He wore a pocket watch, of which established a firm connection between his rather Georgian jacket and the striped buttoned shirt of which he wore beneath his jacket. A badge representing his occupation in the local law enforcement, was also attached proudly to his jacket, in order to make all aware of it's presence. The pistol in the right inner pocket of the man's jacket, was perhaps a better way to make everyone he despised, or knew aware of himself. He leaned against the door frame, with his arms crossed, and sighed.

"Does this look like a mass, people?" the man rhetorically asked with a frown. "Get going! The boy looks like he's endured enough without all of you being a pain in the ass."

They all turned back to face Abornazine, reluctant to leave his side, but the authoritative voice of the lawman that had entered the room, provided a good enough reason to exit the room.

"Good riddance", the lawman chuckled, as he shut the door behind him, and stared at Abornazine as he continued to rest his head in the pillows, confused in regards to what had just occurred, but still sane. Still sane, still alive. He paused, before he could begin his greetings. "Good morning, Mr Abo-equin?"

The boy smiled at the man's incorrect pronunciation of his birth name, before he replied, "Hello to you too, Mister...?"

"Mister Ross, Edgar Ross, or you can just call me Edgar if you prefer."

"Oh, ok."

The awkward silence that followed, enabled the boy to adjust to his surroundings. The room in which he was resting in, was spacious, and of a fine design to say the least. A glass container full to it's maximum capacity of a type of alcohol (most likely to be whiskey), stood upon a table to the side of his bed. Although it was a temptation of which others found hard to resist, it had quite the opposite effect on Abornazine. His years of learning from his native chiefs, and role models, had been successful in persuading him to not inflict harm upon himself, in whatever way that may be. The internal organs of the young, but still strong boy were grateful as a result. Sixteen was a significant age in his life, and he certainly didn't want to ruin it, not right now, and hopefully not ever. Mister 'Ross' broke the silence, by reminding him of why he was in this position in the first place.

"I-I really don't know how you're still alive, son," he said in a slightly surprised tone, "I knew a guy once who worked at my station just a couple of blocks away from here, and me and him, we, we were good friends, and he got shot in the foot like you did. He bled to death, the poor guy."

The native boy, slightly irritated by the man's anecdote, tilted his head in the direction of the window. Through it, he could make out the letters on a sign, "B-L-A-C-K-W-A-T-E-R". _'The nearby town for the drunks, delinquents and careless for society'_, he had once been told by his father, who had ironically been here on more than once an occasion.

"Thank you for telling me that, Mister Ross. A reminder of my pain was all I needed," Abornazine said without a smile, but still knowing he was using sarcasm.

Mr Ross frowned to show his disapproval of the native boy's response, "Very funny, very funny, young man."

"With all due respect, sir, I wasn't being funny, I was just proving my wit."

"Wit, eh? Do you know they say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, boy?"

"Did you also know that I don't really give a shit, Mister Ross?"

"Very funny again, son," said Mr Ross, his face becoming as red as a ripe tomato, due to his struggle to keep his temper stable, which it was, for now, "that wasn't a characteristic of your father, Nastas, when we knew him."

Intrigued by the lawman's statement, Abornazine tilted his head back towards Ross, and tried to use his body to sit up straight in a rather uncomfortable resting place. But when his body began aching again as a result of his injuries, as his cuts attempted to close, and his body attempted to reduce the dark visibility of his bruises, the native boy had no choice, but to return to his original position. Mister Ross noticed this, and put his hand on the boy's shoulder, advising him to stay in his position. He then stood up, and stared at the boy as if he had experienced a revelation.

"Your brave attempts to return to physical normality remind me that you require more rest, boy. I hope to see you again, son. The doctor will keep me updated with improvements in your health, but until then, I bid you farewell," the lawman said before he wheeled around to face the doorway, and began to walk in that direction. He was stopped halfway on his exit, when Abornazine reiterated his thought in speech.

"Wait, sir, how do you know my father?"

The lawman paused, but refused to rotate again to face the native boy. It took a few moments before he could conjure up a reply, but he still managed to.

"That's for me to know son," he said, "and you to decide".

Another man entered the room that day, looking through the various drawers that lined the edges of the room. Less stylish in his choice of clothing than the lawman Ross, with more of the appearance of a traditional 'outsider'. _An outlaw, maybe?,_ Aborazine thought as he was awoken by the sound of footsteps across the floor.

"Now, where's my pictures, where's my pictures?" the man thought aloud, a worried expression controlling his countenance. With a satchel attached to his body from shoulder to hips, and a bandolier, Abornazine doubted the strange man, as someone who forgets any objects of significance often.

"Excuse me, sir, are these yours?" Aborazine politely asked as he held out photos, of which he had found earlier in the day in the drawer beside his bed.

The cowboy turned around, to find the source of the mysterious voice, to be from an injured boy. Perhaps, he had felt a little horror at the extent of the injuries, but it was clear that at this moment in time, he had priorities right now.

"Yes, why thank you, son," he took the pictures, and began looking through them, switching them, they seemed to be memories of which the man was very fond of.

"Sorry to intrude, sir, but may I see them?"

The man looked away from his photos, and at Abornazine instead. His raised eyebrow, and hairy face, made it clear he was in deep consideration as to how to respond. The marks on the boy's face, however, took to his curiosity, before he could respond.

"Where did you get those scars?" he asked, feeling the side of his face. Abornazine noticed two deep scars on the man's right cheek, before Abornazine himself used his right hand to check where the man was pointing on the native boy's face. As Abornazine softly touched the side of his cheek, he felt, a cut that was spread in almost the same direction as the cowboy. His inner self panicked, but the situation at hand was managed to keep cool, somehow. Hesitation was still helpful before he replied,

"Just a fight, that's all, sir."

The strong native looked away embarrassed by his lie. Lying to anyone, including one's self was seen as a consequence of being a disobedient, and unreliable brother, to others within his own origins.

"We both know that's not true, Abornazine," the man sighed.

"How do you know that, sir? And how the hell do you even know my name?" Abornazine asked, in a mixture of a frightened, and worried attitude.

"Let's just say...I'm a family friend. My sympathy towards your injuries, son, but I have suffered something similar before," the traditionalist looked up at a clock that lay hanging in the room before he continued, "besides, I have something more important to do."

"Wait sir, at least tell me your name, goddamnit."

"Marston. John Marston."


End file.
